


Strawberry Leaves

by ICanFlyHigher



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Pining, moomin has it bad yall, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 22:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18678400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICanFlyHigher/pseuds/ICanFlyHigher
Summary: Moomin spends a summer day beside his best friend (who he does not under any circumstances like. at all. absolutely not)





	Strawberry Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work for the moomins and i'm hoping i wrote moomin's character right. only one way to find out!

Moomin knows he will smell like smoke when he gets home; smell like sweat from the midday summer sun and smoke from Snufkin’s pipe as he lounges beside him. He’s been smoking a strange sweet grass lately instead of his usual clove. It smells faintly of strawberry leaves, and Moomin knows the smell will cling to his fur for the rest of the day and follow him home to Moomin House once the sun goes down. Almost as if he was bringing a wisp of Snufkin home with him.

Snufkin lets out a lazy, cloudy breath of smoke. His coat is spread out under them, separating them from summer burs, and Moomin is amazed by how Snufkin’s bare shoulders, missing the protection of fur or feathers, change shade in the Sun. This summer has given him an uneven tan, brown spots from shirts with unpatched holes, and wild freckles. So many freckles.

Moomin loves those freckles. If he asked would Snufkin sit still and let him count them all? Move from up his arms to his shoulders and around to the back of his neck, then finally to his face, cheeks speckled like pebbles on a river bank, like stars across a night sky—

“Do I have something on my face?” Snufkin asks. His voice carries a heaviness with it that always happens when he’s been smoking and Moomin flushes as he realizes Snufkin noticed his staring.  


“Can I try?” He blurts out in an attempt to save face. “Your pipe—can I try it?”

Snufkin sits up further and pushes up the brim of his hat. Moomin makes a point to look square at his nose, away from any and all freckles, but when Snufkin smiles his nose twitches and Moomin’s chest twitches with it. How could such a small, uncontrolled movement be so enduring? 

“’Course. Come here.” Snufkin waves Moomin over as he repacks his pipe and strikes a match, and when he leans over, pipe in hand, his shoulder presses lightly against Moomin’s. Moomin doesn’t notice, not at all, doesn’t find himself distracted by Snufkin’s sun warmed skin and by the closeness of those brown, pretty spots. Absolutely not.

“Take it in slow or you might burn your tongue. Don’t worry if the pipe goes out—”

Moomin inhaled sharp and fast. Smoke snorts up his nose, burning his tongue and shoving its way into his lungs all at once. Moomin wheezes, spluttering out smoke, and he can spy Snufkin biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh from the corner of his eye. Moomin flushes strawberry red under his fur. Snufkin’s laugh was lovely, sharp and deep, but not when he was watching Moomin cough up smoke like a boring old wet blanket. 

“It takes some getting used to; I hated it at first.” Moomin just shakes his head and hands back the pipe, throat still burning too badly for words.

Snufkin hasn’t moved. His weight is still steady on Moomin’s shoulder and Moomin isn’t sure if he should move away or let Snufkin be. The thought of him staying there for the rest of the day as they laid back together leaves a giddy warmth in Moomin’s belly, but Moomin is quick to douse it. Friends don’t find such a thrill in simple touches, even best friends. They are content with what they are given. Snufkin puts his pipe back between his teeth. Moomin’s lips had just been there—the thought was enough to bring another ridiculous blush, and Moomin was never so thankful for his white moomin fur before now. Snufkins kissed differently than moomins, pressing their mouths together in a way Moomin found quite awkward to imagine, but his lips had pressed around where Snufkin’s so often did—did that make it its own kind of snufkin kiss?

Sometimes, when the two of them lay out under the stars and on top of the cooling sands of the beach, heads but a foot apart, Moomin imagined leaning over and settling his snout against Snufkin’s cheek in a proper moomin kiss. How his hairless skin would feel against his fur, his cheek so much softer than his hard, calloused hands. How he’d smell like sweat and coffee and clove smoke, something that Moomin surely would have turned his nose up at if it came from anyone else. And then Moomin would promptly pick up his sleeping bag and moved it two feet away from Snufkin’s. 

Snufkin puffs out a slow ring and Moomin watches it dissolve into the air. He jumps when something brushes his knuckles. When he glances down, expecting a junebug or a cricket, he finds it’s Snufkin’s fingers, claws carefully avoiding Moomin’s skin. Moomin can’t seem to take his eyes off of the back of his paw, brown fur patchy and scared from days spent climbing up trees and rocks and through dense brushes. He finally looks back up and finds Snufkin’s tan freckled face inches from his own.

Snufkin smiles, not the soft simple ones he usually sports, but a wide grin, and it suits him beautifully. He ought to smile like this more often. 

Moomin can see the start of a sunburn across Snufkin’s cheeks with the two of them so close, and then he can’t as Snufkin covers his eyes with his paw. Moomin’s heart jumps up to his throat and stays tied up there as Snufkin rests his cheek against Moomin’s. He lingers, terribly, wonderfully so, and the gentle press of skin on skin is better than any beach side daydream.

“Snufkin?” He asks, and is amazed that his voice doesn’t tremble. 

And then he can see again. He can see blurry shapes as his eyes adjust to the dark of his bedroom, and groans, pulling the covers up over his head.  
Best friends don’t dream of silly first kisses and silly, stupid freckles. Best friends respect boundaries.

He realizes what woke him from his—silly, stupid—dream when the bird call comes again, an impressive but still artificial imitation of a blue jay. Moomin throws open his bedroom window and rubs the left over sleep from his eyes as Snufkin waves up at him from the base of the house. For a moment Moomin wants nothing more to ignore him and go back to the smiling, sunny Snufkin waiting for him in bed. But a real Snufkin would always be better than an unattainable dream. A real Snufkin is impossible to replicate. 

Moomin waves back and started down his bedroom ladder.

**Author's Note:**

> don't worry y'all snufkin is head over heels for him moomin just doesn't know it.


End file.
